November 4th, 2005

Writing no matter what: Round 4.

I'm going to tell you about the Halloween party we had at our apartment last Friday. There's not much to say about it other than that it was the greatest and the worst party of the year. Out of the four nights of Halloween, the abundance of parties that people attended in their attempt to stay drunk throughout the holiday, ours was recorded as the biggest, the craziest, and the cake-topping Friday night three days before Halloween was even here.

We set up a keg of PBR with about a thousand cups behind a table decorated with five handles of liquor and an array of mixing options. And for the duration of the party, Bunny was stranded as the little orphan Annie bartender that was doing her best to maintain stability in the drinking corner while taking shots with customers every five minutes and getting sufficiently shitfaced herself. Meanwhile I was cleverly dressed in my own costume that may have appeared to everyone else to be just another sexy bunny, but in reality was just titled "fashion major from Ai." I was trying to mingle and keep everyone not at the bar entertained, but that quickly went from a nice little do-good thing to pretty much impossible. In a matter of moments it seemed that the door had been broken down and people of all shapes, sizes, types, preferences, and ages were swarming in, some dressed like creatures and things from Halloween's fantasies, others dressed obnoxiously like their obnoxious selves. Every kind of person that you could imagine was in our tiny little apartment, trying to maneuver through the diversity without spilling Bunny's perfectly-poured beverage all over themselves or someone around them that may unleash a bitchslap or a punch. There were fashion designers; the bitchy girls who always complained that they were never getting laid because they only hung out with the token gay boys. There were newbies; kids who had just come in this quarter and wanted to know where the parties were so they could try and land names for themselves. There were those faces; the dudes I'd seen at school but had never talked to until they were chugging beers in my bedroom and playing catch with my cat. There were dude-guys and jock-o's and thugs galore; the guys that show up and drink your alcohol and hit on your friends even though you've got no clue who they are or how they got here. And in the smallest quantity it seemed, there were the people I actually wanted to be there: friends. Of the 100+ people in our cramped little space, the fewest faces of all the groups pushing their ways around the crowd, were the people I actually wanted to be there.

And sure enough, it happened. By 1:30, this party was officially out of control. And not in a good way, either. There was property being stolen, valuables being broken, faces getting punched, alcohol poisoning robbing consciousness, drinks being spilled, violence being motivated, and disrespect everywhere. By the time the cops came, there was simply no way to apply any sort of order to this frantic crowd of people that didn't want to listen to a single person other than the anihilated voice in their heads. There was no stopping any of the chaos no matter how hard we tried, and eventually a mutual decision was made between the hosts and the friends that this party had to be over.

So with bouncers at every entrance, trustworthy companions at the chords of our computers, and skateboarding allies ready with longboards and fists, we started to hoard. Like dogs to a wild pack of rabid sheep, we tried and tried to contain the madness and get people to listen, but it was no use. No matter what we did, there were drunk girls trying to slip under the arms of our bouncers, shady thugs trying to slip chords out of sockets and escape with our belongings, and fighting words even fists didn't want to tamper with. No matter how loud we screamed or how serious we were, these college kids just didn't want to end the party yet.

Eventually we got so fed up with the disrespect that we started grabbing people one by one and literally shoving them out our door. Bunny had to full-throttle punch someone in the face when he scratched her weak spot and called her a "fat fuck." I had to push some girl up against the wall by her shoulder when she decided she had to cop an attitude with me because I was ending a party at 1:30. I got right up in her face, finger and all, and told her exactly who she did and didn't have a right to snap her fingers at. Bob had to pound on a mattress a few times to relieve his frustration and urge to make it someone's face. In the course of the night I was trying to end, we'd had an appearance from the cops, a girl vomit on her knees shortly after arriving, a guy get carried down the three flights of stairs and to the corner, completely limp and with his pants around his ankles and his friend screaming in his ear not to die on him, a fight ensue, another fight ensue, another fight ensue, the neighbors complain about six times, five handles of liquor and a keg get polished, our wall get tagged, our hookah get broken, and John Fay's bandana, another black bandana, a keg tap, and a hair straightener get stolen.

Like I said, it was the greatest and the worst party of the year. Afterwards I felt completely surreal; like the night I had just experienced was from one of the weirdest dreams I'd ever had. Everyone remaining -- people we'd wanted to spend time with but had been too consumed with ordering the madness -- just sat around and calmed down by smoking a very necessary bowl and polishing off the last of the brought alcohol. There were two party victims passed out in my bed, one dressed as the joker and therefore decked in face-paint that he was drunkenly smearing all over my sheets, and another with a bucket by her face. There was a sick girl in Bunny's bed, and six more people to provide makeshift bedding for. I felt like I never wanted to party again if that was what the hostess had to endure every time. I'd never seen anything like it before; never had I seen a group of people have such a massive problem with a party needing to end. Never had I been exposed to such disagreement and disrespect, just so that a gigantic group of people I didn't know or care about in the least could continue getting wasted when everyone had already reached that "too drunk" point hours ago. And the funny thing is that, although I took the rest of the weekend off from partying (aside from Monday), I heard through the grapevine that when the exact same group of fashion designers, newbies, faces, jock-o's, thugs, and friends showed up to the party the following night and the night after that, the exact same thing happened. I guess it just means that everyone that goes to college has an automatic in at every college party, and unfortunately, not everyone that goes college is automatically smart, so watch out for that.

Next entry: We had quite a nice little adventure returning the keg the next morning... which was purchased from a tiny little alcohol store in Pacific Heights. Which is on top of the steepest hills in the city. Which are also on the other side of town.